For 18 years, my son received a mysterious envelope every birthday—when he finally opened the last one, he discovered who had been sending them all along

was a twenty, and Adrian reacted as though royalty had contacted us.

“Oh, this is serious now,” he said, staring at the bill. “My secret person is moving up in the world.”

I laughed, but by then, the mystery had started bothering me too.

I checked postmarks. Studied the handwriting. Held envelopes against the light like someone in a cheap detective show.continue reading …